For fine days there was the garden, and for variety Puck and the pony carriage. Miss Harefield took her friend for long drives across the moor. Once they met Cyril in one of the lanes, and passed him with a distant recognition. Bella saw Beatrix’s cheek grow pale as he came in sight. ‘How white you turned just now,’ she said, when Puck had carried them ever so far away from the curate of Little Yafford. ‘Did I?’ asked Beatrix. ‘I don’t think I can be as pale as you. That was sympathy, I suppose. You felt how hard it was for me to pass him by.’ ‘Yes,’ answered Bella in her quiet little way, ‘that was what I felt.’ Bella had been staying at the Water House a week and during that time had seen Mr. Harefield about half a dozen times. He was in the habit of dining with his daughter and her governess on Sundays. It was not a pleasant change in his hermit-like life, but he made this sacrifice to paternal duty. Every Sunday at four o’clock he sat down to dinner with his daughter and Miss Scales. Now that Miss Scales was away he sat down alone with the two girls, and looked at them curiously, when he found himself face to face with them at the board, as if they had been a new species in zoology which he had never before had the opportunity of scrutinizing. He looked from one to the other thoughtfully while he unfolded his napkin, as if he were not quite clear as to which was his daughter, and then, having made up his mind on that point, addressed himself with a slight turn of the head to Beatrix. ‘Your friend has grown very much,’ he said. ‘Do you really think so, Mr. Harefield?’ inquired Bella, with a gratified simper. It was something to be spoken of in any wise by this modern Timon. Mr. Harefield went on helping the soup without a word. He had quite forgotten his own remark, and had not heard Bella’s. They got half-way through the dinner in absolute silence. Then a tart and a pudding appeared, and the tart, being set down rather suddenly before Mr. Harefield, seemed to disturb him in the midst of a waking dream. ‘Have you heard from Miss Scales?’ he asked his daughter abruptly. ‘Yes, papa. I have had two letters. Her aunt is very ill. Miss Scales is afraid she will die.’ ‘She hopes it, you mean. Can you suppose such a sensible person as Miss Scales would wish a tiresome old woman’s life prolonged when she will get a legacy by her death?’ ‘Miss Scales is a good woman, papa. She would not be so wicked as to wish for any one’s death.’ ‘Would she not? I’m afraid there are a great many good people on this earth wishing as hard as they can in the same line. Expectant heirs, expectant heiresses--waiting to wrench purse and power from a dead man’s gripe.’